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Box O’ Crap

May 15th, 2009

On a recent trip back to my hometown, I was met at the door to my parent’s home by my sister April who was in frothy frenzy. She was attempting to re-organize my parent’s entire house in a few short days! She insisted that I help her.

I didn’t want to help her.
I wanted to watch nineteen solid hours of HGTV!
Because I don’t have HGTV.
So I feel it is my duty to catch up when I am at the folks.
But April would not let me.
Before I arrived, April had already sorted through MY old bedroom closet. She had a box. A box of stuff that she had found in that closet that she thought I needed to have.
I did not want the stuff in the box.
I left it at home.
A few weeks later, my mom came for a visit and she had the box of stuff that April had found in my closet.
And SHE LEFT it at my HOUSE!
The box has been sitting in the study for several weeks.
I was tempted to pitch the entire thing in the trash, but on Saturday I sat down and went through it
Here is what I found in that box o’ crap.
Old Dance Pictures….

Why could not the photographer have said…
Uh Miss… Miss… you might want to pat down your hair… your hair… it looks like you have two horns…. just give it little pat…. maybe run your fingers through it… here I have a comb…. and a mirror… Go ahead fix it… There! That’s better!
But no…
Instead I have horns.

I really loved this particular ballet costume.
I thought it was very wispy and elegant and princess like.
I remember thinking that in this photo, I wanted to appear serious. I wanted to be pale and waif-like and fragile and somber. I wanted to look like an oil painting. I wanted to look like something out of a fairy tale.
I don’t think people in fairy tales EVER have feathered hair.
But I succeeded in looking somber.
And slightly pissed off.

Now here is a study in contrast.
Note the lace buttoned collar and the austere sweater vest and the ZIT which is set off so nicely…


This appears to be some sort of photography project where I was to write about what was wrong with the photos. I have been taking bad pictures for a very long time. This is a skill I was just born with. You can’t learn it. You either have it or your don’t!
Now let me tell you what is wrong with these photos.
What is wrong with the first photo is that April took a picture of me jumping off my parents’ well proving once and for all that I AM A GIGANTIC DOOFUS.
What is wrong with the second picture is that my sister looks like she is dressed for an episode of WKRP Cincinnati.

My High school graduation tassel was in the box o’ crap. I don’t know how I got through the past twenty years without it.

And THANK GOD my sister placed this precious artifact in that box!

I found the last will and testament from my entire graduating class. I willed my talent to look good after a football game to my High school boyfriend.
I must have been referring to the blue eyeliner.

I found this assignment from Home Economics.

I got a C.
How do you get a C on a wardrobe inventory?
It appears I was supposed to write something about my attitudes and values towards clothing. I don’t know why I missed that part of the assignment. But I can tell you now that my attitude towards clothi
Can I have a better grade now?
Can I???

Then there was all this stuff.

and GEEAWWW… all this stuff!!!!
And OH LORD this stuff!
I am sorry to tell you this…
I was in a pageant once…
Yes, I was.
It was hard times then.
Small town…
Not much to do except stand around in corn fields and drink beer…
…and be in pageants.
So I chose the pageant route.
What is funny about this, is that as I was paging through the photos in the booklet, I was trying to remember which girl won…
I remembered which girl I wanted to win, but I knew she did not.
I remember which girl I thought would win, but she didn’t win either.
Then I found this picture…

I guess number 18 was the winner.

And judging from what I did to her mouth – I guess I was not too happy about it…

And this is my pink fluffy sister in a hoop skirt.
She is the one who made this box o’ crap possible.
Thank you April.
I am saving Donald Duck nightlight and the seashell just for you.

My sister and I were not always the glamour queens that you see today.

We started out as simple small town girls…

It takes years of perseverance and strain and hard work and dedication and lying on the sofa with a box of stale Nilla wafers on your stomach while yelling at your kids to

before you can achieve this level of high fashion modelling.

So don’t be too hard on yourselves…

We used to be normal sweet little girls….

Just like everyone else…
P.S. Jean at Renovation Therapy has a hilarious contest going on with much better prizes than old, used books.

I have been analyzing and assessing and using my critical thinking skills and walloping my victuals, and sawing the callouses off my big toes with my thumb nail, and ruminating, and obsessing and lying on my bed in a twisted heap of pain, and staring at the ceiling fan… and I have finally decided that my sinking blog stats having nothing to do with me.

Nothing at all!
As usual it is the fault of other people that are causing me to fail.
This is how it has always been.

Example Number One Of Other People Causing Me To Fail – Or Math Suicide
My poor math grades… throughout my entire life… including the remedial math class I was forced to take in college and also failed are actually not my fault… but the fault of other people…

Mostly my poor math grades are the fault of my math teachers who did not seem to understand that when they spoke in numerals… all I ever heard coming out of their mouths was “blah, blah, blah, number, number, protein, legume, nitrogen, blah”.
Why could they not speak my language instead? Why could they not read aloud long segments from Nancy Drew Books and later the startling literary revelations of V.C. Andrews and Jean M. Auel? I would have especially liked for my math teachers to explain in great detail the weird sex stuff in those books that completely riveted my fourteen year old brain and held it captive for entire semesters at a time.
Why could they not replace word problems with fashion shows…
And geometry with silent sustained reading of Seventeen magazine?
Why did they not consider letting me make up cheerleading routines instead of taking tests?
And how about writing our boyfriends names in our notebooks instead of homework?
If only they would have taught me math the correct way, I would have succeeded and I would now be a nuclear physicist with a second home in Shropshire, instead of a failing blogger and general lunatic.
Problem Number 2 – IBS or Irritable Bowel Syndrome
Did you know that I used to suffer quite dramatically from Irritable Bowel Syndrome?
Did you?
Do you want me to tell you all about it?
Do you?
I started to suffer from IBS soon after my first son was born. The unusual thing about my particular case of IBS was that it only struck whenever my husband’s family was due to show up at our house en masse at any minute.
Suddenly and quite tragically, I would be overcome with such violent twisting stomach pain that the only cure was to lie motionless on my bed in a curled ball of agony until everyone had left our house.
Note to readers – The Country Doctor’s family is huge, vast, as numerous as the individual grains of sands on all the beaches in all the world.
My own family of origin is tiny.
I had a bit of trouble adapting.
But again this is not my fault.
Why could not The Country Doctor have noticed my pain for just a teensy second instead of merely stepping over my throbbing intestines on the way to open the door to the first wave of dinner guests?
Why could not The Country Doctor have insisted, just one tiny time, that perhaps I was too weak and shaky to host a massive flood of virtual strangers and force everyone out in a gallant and brave act of uncompromising love?
Why could not the Country Doctor have realized that although my tummy troubles only struck at the onset of a visit from his family, that did not mean I was in any way, shape, or form a faker. I was simply allergic to his family. An allergy I have overcome with the help of meditation, prayer, and the ability to escape into my own cloud of happy unicorns at will.
Problem Number Three – The Crimson Girls
Just this evening, I was pestered with yet another phone call from the University of Kansas asking for money. I had no intention of giving them a dime as well… you know… I already gave KU a lot of money.

That is where the Country Doctor went to Medical School and um yeah… so anyway – when they called they asked for $100.00 and I said no. Then they said what about $50.00? I said no… Then they said okay, you are really pathetic, but would you give $25.00 and I said no. You know why I said no?

I think if you look back at the Crimson Girl line-up between the years 1987 and 1991 you will notice a huge sucking hole where I SHOULD HAVE BEEN!!!
And yes – NOT MY FAULT
Which brings us to Problem Number Four That is Not My Fault – This Blog.
Why is this blog sucking wind?
Why is it turning into a vacuum of endless night?
Why is this blog becoming the black hole of burning gas from the nether regions of Planet Xerxes?
Clearly this is not my fault.
I show up everydaywell almost everyday… and blather on about the same inane, stupid, ridiculous, things… and put the same blurry, ill focused, vague
photos up of a bunch of people that no one knows and occasionally a long mindless video of my family watching TV… and EVEN with all that – the blog still declines!
After a lot of soul searching I have decided just whose fault it is and I hereby Pronounce PHOTOSHOP as the evil that so infests blogland that it is impossible to succeed without it.
Yes, Photoshop is the culprit.
Photoshop is The Enemy
The Devil
Satan’s Scourge
Yellow Puss Boil Weed
Rocky Mountain Hippie Stink

and Death in A Pasture.
It is Photoshop’s fault!
You see, I don’t do photoshop on this blog. Not even for a nanosecond. The idea of manipulating a photo is as foreign to me as the idea of eating live earthworms.
I mean here is the photo.
It is already done.
Why would you do more to it???
This is sheer madness.
If someone were to give you a piece of hot cherry pie with a scoop of vanilla bean speck ice-cream on top, would you feel the need to highlight the vanilla bean specks before you ate it?
If someone gave you a puppy that was the exact breed and personality and calm quiet potty trained cuteness that you had always dreamed of, would you send him back for a more misty background?
If suddenly you were handed a pair of keys… to a house… on the beach… in Italy… and told you that you would never have to work again, but to just go, live your life, take all your friends and family (or not) and just go and never worry again… would you insist that the sky in Italy be just a tiny bit more blue before you accepted the offer?
Photoshop is nuts.
Pure NUTS!!!
But then So Am I
So I went out and I bought PhotoShop.
And I quickly became a genius photo manipulator.
I now give you the Country Doctor’s Wife Capitulation into the Realm of PhotoShop Whosit Whatsit, Whatever…

Here is the Country Doctor before I photoshoppped him.
Here is the Country Doctor after I photoshopped him.

Here are my kids before I photoshopped them and used actions.

Here are my kids now…
Here is my sister before….
eating unphotoshopped pie and drinking unphotoshopped coffee.

Here is my sister now. Do you see how I highlighted her hair and sped up
the motion by applying an action which I invented myself which I hereby name the “Great Balls of Fire” action.
And finally…

Here is me before Photo Shop… before actions… before painkillers… but just after birth. Just after the birth of one of my boys… I don’t even know which one…
If ever there was a photo that could use a little help…
Add a little Photoshop
And here is me now…
I can’t wait to see what this does for my blog stats.
Tra La La,